


Benediction

by Iocane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Altar Sex, Blasphemy, Kink Meme, M/M, Prompt Fill, Scripture, one way ticket to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iocane/pseuds/Iocane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a scripture kink.  Sherlock does not know this.  There's a case at a church.  Sherlock wears a cassock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benediction

**Author's Note:**

> cactuswren at ye olde kink meme requested "All I ask, O ye anons, is the line, "Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me", uttered in an erotic context." … and then a friend said to me "I would so like to see Sherlock bend John over an altar," … so that happened … And then I read another kink meme prompt that wanted Sherlock surprised and turned on when John keeps a secret. This isn't really a fill for that last one but there is some of that in here.
> 
> Link to the actual blasphemy sex prompt - http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=124292847#t124292847
> 
> The keeping a secret from Sherlock prompt - http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=124857583#t124857583
> 
> It should also be noted that I'm a devout atheist (if you want to label, that's the closest) but my mother is Episcopalian, and I've tried to generically portray the Church of England as well as I could.
> 
> Thanks to http://thetruth-is-outthere.tumblr.com/ for a wonderful beta job!

The only thing that surprised John was how long it took Sherlock to find out.

It had been a nagging worry occasionally when he'd wanked off in his own bed, before they became intimate. It would have been just like Sherlock to barge in at the wrong moment.

**

John's hand glided over his erection, eyes closed as he whispered to himself. " _Draw me, we will run after thee_." Giving the head of his cock a slight twist on the upstroke, he tightened his fist a bit. " _The king hath brought me into his chambers_." His hips pushed up, his other hand cupping his balls. " _We will be glad and rejoice in thee._ " His hand sped up, fist tightening. " _We will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee!_ " John groaned as he came. "S-song of Solomon. Chapter 1, verse 4," he gasped out as he milked the last few dregs of semen from his softening cock.

**

Thankfully, he'd avoided that for months and his little kink went undetected. None of his girlfriends had reason to suspect. It wasn't as if he began quoting the Book of Common Prayer during coitus. Religious symbolism did nothing for him, thankfully. Though it had made hiding his porn easier in Afghanistan. Everyone else had playboys and nudie pictures printed off the Internet. No one suspected that John read scripture to wank.

He wasn't entirely sure how it had started, though he had a few memories that might explain it.

**

John's family's pew was just behind the Morstan's, and John's seat was consequently just behind Mary Morstan's. For three years he watched her as he prayed, his mind wandering during the sermons, imagining Mary's inky black curls against his hands. Wondering how her full lips would feel against his own. All of this coincided with his body's maturation. He began getting erections in church.

First he assumed it was because of his wandering thoughts about Mary. Then he went to a wedding with his family. Mary wasn't there, and he was seated behind a woman with an unfortunate looking growth on the back of her neck. He couldn't even think of Mary to banish the image before him. But during the service before the wedding, John still had an erection.

**

Once he and Sherlock become more than friends and flatmates, and Sherlock had moved his things into John's room upstairs, there really hadn't been any reason to wank. During cases, John was too intent on the case itself to really need to get off, or too exhausted from keeping up with Sherlock to care. And when there was no case, sex was a fantastic way to kill the boredom for a few hours.

As it always did, of course, John Watson's luck finally ran out. Sherlock took a case connected to a church.

The source was a bit unusual. It wasn't any of the main three – Lestrade and the rest of the Yard; Sherlock's website; John's website.

"I met Reverend Kelly through the homeless network," Sherlock explained on the cab ride over.

"I can't imagine what kind of Reverend would go to a detective, rather than the police," John admitted, concentrating on breathing normally – there was no reason to assume they'd be listening to any sort of sermon or anything for the case. Just because the client was a Reverend, doesn't mean it's to do with the church itself.

"Someone's been stealing from the collection plate."

"Sure it wasn't one of the officials? I read something like that a while back, a deacon skimming off the collection."

"Reverend Kelly thought of that, but she suspects someone is physically taking money from the plate as it's being passed around. Unfortunately given the nature of her parishioners, it's difficult to see who's doing it – no one sits in the same place every time. She just knows that she'll see a large amount of bills at one moment, but then a few minutes later, not many bills at all."

"Alright. Uhm, how are you planning to solve this one? Finger print the money? Some kind of dye?"

Sherlock gave him a withering stare and John waited patiently, knowing the answer would be forth coming ant time now. He didn't mind looking foolish if it got Sherlock to hurry up already with the explanations. "We're going to watch the sermon. You don't have a problem with church, do you?"

"No. No problem at all."

**

For the most part, aside from scripture itself, nothing about the Church of England, or any other religion, really titillated John. Scents, tastes, ceremony, symbolism, iconography, even the theology itself bothered him no more or less than the ads on the side of a bus. There were a few exceptions, though, very specific ones. One in particular would drive him rather insane if he let himself think about it. So he never, ever let himself think about it. No matter how perfectly waist high the altar might be.

**

John followed quietly behind Sherlock as the woman lead them through the church and into her office. He deliberately avoided looking at the altar. They were seated, and John listened to the woman explain what Sherlock had told him, but with more detail. He was surprised at Sherlock's lack of interruption. When a man came to the door and said her attention was needed on an urgent matter, they were left alone in the room as she went to attend to it.

"Why aren't you being… you?" He was comfortable enough with Sherlock now to ask without fearing major reprisal.

"You mean why am I not calling her on being a herald of an idiotic practice, furthering ignorance, and fighting proper knowledge tooth and nail?" He asked with a slight sneer though John could see his heart wasn't in it.

"Pretty much, yeah." He wanted to reach for Sherlock's hand, but somehow being in a church gave him pause for any number of reasons.

"The homeless network. As you know, it's an invaluable resource to my work. She is very helpful with enabling and furthering those connections. One thing her church does is provide free phones to the homeless, so they'll always have ways of contacting her or the police or their families if they're needed."

"Or you."

"Or me, of course." He gave John a smirk, as if he'd beaten the system somehow. John decided not to call him on the fact that he probably just liked her, in much the same way he liked Lestrade. Or perhaps Mrs. Hudson, since, despite being younger than their landlady, Reverend Kelly seemed to have the same easy motherly air and Sherlock responded similarly to it.

After a review of upcoming services scheduled over the next few days, Reverend Kelly saw them out. Sherlock suggested they find somewhere nearby to eat.

"I could do with a curry, but why nearby, I'd rather go to that place down the block from the flat," John protested as he strode alongside Sherlock, easily keeping up with the man's longer stride.

"Because there's a service at seven, do keep up." In spite of his short tone and rude words, Sherlock pulled the door open for John and waited for him to enter the Indian place before him.

That sort of rare politeness was, between them, the same as kisses and hand holding for others. John couldn't help but smile. Until he realized what Sherlock had actually said. "Sorry? We're going to church?" he asked once they were seated.

"I need to observe the parishioners," Sherlock explained, setting his own menu aside, not planning to eat. "I believe Reverend Kelly, someone is stealing specifically from the collection plates, not skimming after. It's simple, pathetically so, but _why_ are they doing it? There's very little her church doesn't offer to those in need. Blankets, food, even games and toys for the children. Shelter in the worst weather. Jobs whenever they can."

"I'm willing to bet it's greed," John suggested with a shrug. "It usually is when money's involved."

Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt in response and John ordered. During the meal they continued discussing the case, and John kept his mind very firmly away from churches, scripture, altars, or Sherlock in a fucking cassock. Okay, so maybe _some_ of the imagery did it for him.

**

While John had never indulged before Sherlock, he'd never been repulsed by the male form, either. In fact, men could be quite attractive. The first crush he really remembered with a distinctly sexual edge was that of a young visiting seminary student in the last year he'd bothered going to church. He'd been tall and slender, dark hair kept in a short queue. Every time John had seen him in the church itself, he'd been wearing a sinfully fitted cassock. Snug on his broad shoulders and down to his narrow waist, only to flare out again at his hips. He'd only been at the parish for a few months, but by then the garment he wore had a permanent place in John's masturbation archives.

It probably explained why Sherlock's Belstaff did strange things to his insides right from the start.

**

After dinner, they returned to the church. John didn't know whether to be relieved or distressed when Sherlock suggested they seat themselves apart, on either side of the nave. For the case it made sense to cover more ground, but beyond that John was torn. On one hand, he'd be most likely aroused, sitting between two strangers; though Sherlock wouldn't see him. On the other hand, were they to sit together, Sherlock would undoubtedly notice his condition and there would be a discussion and dissection of it later.

John found himself seated between two women, one of which was obviously homeless and smelled of sweat, smoke, and stale coffee. The other could have been but less obviously so, her clothes were in slightly better repair, though her face said she was just in need of support as the other. Unfortunately he was also seated just behind a tall brute of a man which limited his vision and he was unable to directly account for the honesty of those in his row. He did try to recall the faces of everyone though as he mumbled through the service.

Try as he might, he couldn't ignore the effect it had on him, and he was glad he'd worn his jacket into the church, it hung low enough to cover his modesty. Reverend Kelly had a pleasant alto and read her chosen passages with a ready comfort that had John fully hard halfway through the service.

He was quiet as it ended, finding Sherlock lingering near the exit for him. After a brief goodbye to the Reverend at the door, they hailed a cab. John was practically vibrating with desire. He forced himself to talk, however, worried that if he didn't, he'd find something far more enjoyable to do with his mouth. "Did you see any possibilities?" he asked.

"No. Unfortunately I couldn't get a good view of most of the parishioners. Reverend Kelly confirmed that she saw some money vanish and the take was less than it's been in some time. I do have a plan for tomorrow, however. It'll allow me to see the entirety of the church. Can you sing?"

No matter how long he lived with the man, John wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the way his mind skipped tracks so easily. He'd learned to roll with it. "Technically. It's not the kind of singing anyone would want to hear, though."

"I'm surprised. Given your pleasant speaking voice, I would assume you'd be able to sing as well. Pity."

John couldn't help but grin at that. He didn't make anything of it, but it was nice to know Sherlock felt that way about his voice. "Sorry to disappoint."

"No matter. Ahh, home," he leaned forward as the cab slowed, handing the man a decent sum of money as John climbed out.

It wasn't until they reached their own flat, the door safely closed that the lust simmering in John most of the afternoon, and boiling since halfway through the service finally spilled over. Sherlock only had one glove off before John had him pushed against the wall, their mouths fused together.

He knew he could well be setting up for disappointment, they were still in the middle of a case, after all. But sometimes the physical need overcame the unspoken rules of their relationship, and he prayed that Sherlock let this be one of those times.

Thankfully, Sherlock was feeling generous and it wasn't long before their coats were tossed onto the couch, along with Sherlock's other glove, his scarf and John's jumper. Sherlock's mouth was hot on his throat as those beautiful hands worked his shirt open. John's were equally busy and they were each topless by the time they were halfway up the stairs.

John's foot caught on a step and he stumbled a bit, catching himself on the stairs. Feeling Sherlock bending over, he rolled and met the other man, drawing their bodies together for an incredibly hot, if awkwardly positioned kiss.

" _Bed_ , John," Sherlock growled after pulling away. "I need to fuck you."

For someone who talked so much out of it, Sherlock was usually laconic in bed. But the force behind his words always made up for the dearth of them. A heartbeat or three later, John was on his feet, the bedroom door slamming open as he reached for his trousers. He barely had his off – his shoes interfered – when he was pushed forward onto the bed.

John was stuffing a pillow under his hips when strong hands pushed his thighs apart. Feeling Sherlock climb up behind him, John let out a needy moan. His lover hadn't even taken his trousers off, just opened them enough to free his cock. John slid one hand up, tangling in Sherlock's hair as the younger man kissed his neck. John wasn't sure when he'd gotten the lube, but wasn't long before the self-warming substance was coating Sherlock's fingers and being rubbed into his puckered entrance.

Sherlock didn't speak much in bed but he still managed to communicate, and John could read him well. The breath at the back of his neck was coming in short gasps, the flicks of tongue more habitual than deliberate; Sherlock hadn't bothered to fully undress, though that could be because he knew half-clothed sex was a turn-on for John; the fingers that were carefully opening him were trembling ever so slightly. Sherlock was, for whatever reason, just as needy as John.

John managed to hold his tongue, until three fingers were gliding in and out. Sherlock usually went for four, but John had had enough. "Now!" He growled, jerking his hips back. He wanted the burn, that edge of pain that made all the pleasure that much sweeter.

Sherlock didn't argue. The lube was tossed aside and John vaguely heard it thud to the floor. Sherlock's knees pushed John's thighs even wider apart as his cock was guided into place. John let out a deep, wanton moan at that first stretch of penetration.

This was as close as he came to a truly religious experience. If religious ecstasy was the feeling of being one with God and the universe, that's what this was. In that first moment of being breached, of taking Sherlock into his body, he was so keenly aware of their togetherness, even more than during orgasm. He was joined with Sherlock, and Sherlock was everything to him.

" _John._ " Sherlock's hands slid along John's arms as he lay over the other man, cock seated thickly inside. One hand planted itself in the mattress as Sherlock began to move. The other covered John's hand, long fingers lacing between his short ones, the palm of Sherlock's hand covering the back of John's, pinning it to the bed.

John had his mouth open to beg for movement but he didn't have to. Sherlock began to move and quickly built up a deep, punishing rhythm. His chest rubbed against John's back and his mouth was never far from his lover's skin. John's cock was pressed between his belly and the satin pillowcase his lover always insisted on no matter how often they had to be replaced. Between the build up at the church, Sherlock so deep and close behind him, and the friction from the pillowcase and his own belly, John didn't last long. Groaning out Sherlock's name, he came hard, his body shaking. Sherlock held still, panting against his neck and John knew he was fighting his orgasm.

Oh, Sherlock was in _that_ mood. Sometimes this was John's favorite part, though it wasn't by any means part of their routine. Sherlock took longer than he did occasionaly, odd considering their ages, but Sherlock Holmes could never be ordinary. The first time, John had worried he hadn't been adequate in bed, taken his own pleasure and left Sherlock hanging. That time, he'd used his mouth to finish the other man. Since then, when they fancied, they did it on purpose, Sherlock holding back deliberately once he knew that John not only didn't mind, he liked it.

After he'd gotten himself under control, and John lay limp and spent under him, Sherlock began to move. His motions were entirely different than they'd been before. Gone was the full glide of his cock, replaced by almost sharp, jabbing thrusts. Needy grunts supplanted breathy gasps in John's ear.

John closed his eyes and let the deliciously filthy sensation of being used wash over him. To lay here and be nothing but a pliant, warm body for Sherlock to take his pleasure in. Sherlock's movements became quicker, his thrusts even shallower and John kept his body relaxed – a willing vessel for his lover's lust. " _Mine_." Sherlock growled as he filled John with one final thrust, holding still as he emptied himself, his body going as limp as John's.

After a few moments, Sherlock shifted to his side, pushing his trousers and pants down and off, keeping his eyes on John. John climbed slowly from the bed, making no effort to hide the tenderness of his arse. Sherlock had confessed once to enjoying proof of, as he'd called it, a job well done. In the tiny quarter bath, he washed himself, then emerged with a warm flannel. They exchanged a few lazy kisses as John washed Sherlock off, and tossed the flannel aside – aiming for and missing the hamper.

The soiled pillow – and its inconvenient wet spot – were evicted unceremoniously from the bed by a swift kick from Sherlock and before long the two were settled down for sleep. John lay on his back, one arm tucked under his pillow – a habit from his Afghanistan days, when he kept a knife there. Sherlock managed to sprawl over the entire rest of the bed, his head tucked into John's shoulder, with one arm around his chest, the other straight across the bed and tucked under what should be his pillow. John's other arm wound around Sherlock's back, his hand curled around Sherlock's shoulder. In this way, like so many others, they fit together perfectly.

*

**

*

John was accustomed to waking alone so he didn't think anything of it as he stumbled into the upstairs bathroom and groggily relieved himself. He tugged on one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, preferring the expensive material to his own bathrobe, and made his way sleepily downstairs. What he saw in the sitting room made him wonder vaguely if he was still asleep. "Sherlock?" He asked, his voice rough with sleep as he made sure his dressing gown was belted over his burgeoning erection. "What are… Why are you wearing a cassock?" His mouth was dry as he verbalized the question.

Sherlock stood tall in front of the sitting room mirror, buttoning the black garment up to his throat. The fine material snugly fit along Sherlock's shoulders and back. The garment looked especially tailored, not just for Sherlock's size but to emphasize his dimensions. His shoulders and chest seemed broader, his chest as well, his arms seemed to be longer and his waist was trimmer. The unbroken line between waist and foot made his already long legs seem astounding. The total effect rendered John speechless, dry-mouthed and achingly hard.

With his slender fingers and pale skin, Sherlock utterly looked the part of a pastor from a bygone era. The days when someone like him would be endowed by a wealthy family and given a living as well as a church. Seeing Sherlock like this, John wondered, with his few functioning brain cells, why the idea of debauching a priest had never yet entered his list of fantasies. Possibly because no priest before now had been Sherlock.

It had been one thing, seeing Sherlock tuck a strip of white into his collar and play a simpering priest. This was… something else entirely. Something that John was entirely too sleepy to really deal with. "Please tell me you're not playing a priest again, Sherlock," he said, trying to cover his arousal with sleep, keeping his eyes half shut, face scrunched with sleep as he forced himself to turn and walk into the kitchen for tea.

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "Reverend Kelly wouldn't let me," he added under his breath, though John could hear him perfectly well. "I'll be joining the choir. Their position within the church will allow me to see the entire room and I'll be able to tell who is stealing from the collection plate."

"Won't be needing me, then," he said, glad of the choir. Even if Sherlock did want him there, the choir wore a surplice over their clothes so John would be spared watching his lover in the sinful black cassock while he sang. Wouldn't stop him from knowing it was under there, though. But then, seeing him in clothes at all didn't stop John from knowing intimately what Sherlock looked like naked. He could cope. He hoped.

"Of course I will," Sherlock said absently even as he donned the white surplice, covering him almost entirely, down to mid-calf. Now he just looked like an overgrown altar boy, an image that John was far more capable of dealing with. "I can't quite see the entire church, so I'll need you sitting on the pew I can't see." He strode into the kitchen, picking up the tea John had just finished making.

With fuck-me-priest Sherlock replaced by tea-nicking-altar-boy Sherlock, John found his voice again. "How did you even get that, anyway?" He gestured at the choir outfit. He'd helped Sherlock move. Which was to say John had moved all of Sherlock's things from the downstairs bedroom to the upstairs one, and no cassock or surplice had been in evidence.

"Reverend Kelly loaned it to me," Sherlock explained, giving John a searching look.

Ignoring the look and fixing his own tea, John was just glad Sherlock didn't seem to have sussed out his discomfort. John chalked it up to the odd distraction of actually caring about the case. "Well, when are you doing this, I have a few hours at surgery today."

"Of course. I'll be at choir rehearsal this morning. Not that I need it but Reverend Kelly insists that I attend at least one rehearsal before she'll allow me to sing for a service. You should be finished with the surgery by half-past one. Have some lunch and take a cab to the church and you'll make it to the three o'clock service."

"Fine, but I'm taking your card," He said with a petulant note that just made Sherlock smile faintly. John preferred to take the tube or walk but he couldn't make it from the surgery to the church in the time he had, especially of lunch was involved.

"I've already put it in your wallet," Sherlock answered smoothly as he glided out of the kitchen, leaving an empty teacup as he pulled on his coat and scarf.

John was alone, smiling rather stupidly to himself as he finished his tea and decided that Sherlock could treat him to a quick breakfast during his walk to the surgery. And somehow, through some combination of distraction, and good acting on John's part, Sherlock was still ignorant of John's little kink. Yes, John was definitely being treated to breakfast. He actually giggled as he headed to the shower to get ready for his shift.

John usually dressed well for his job at the surgery, but this time he went a little farther, since he'd be attending church afterwards. It wasn't a very posh church, but he wanted to look good for Sherlock if he was being honest with himself. And maybe seeing what looked to be a well off parishioner might encourage the thief to boldness.

Sherlock met him at the door of the church as others began to trickle in for the three o'clock service. "Right over here," he indicated where he wanted John to sit. Before John was allowed to take his seat, however, Sherlock reached for his tie, adjusting it minutely. "You really should learn how to actually tie these things." John didn't miss the way Sherlock's fingers lingered, brushing against John's shirt as he fussed with the tie. Recognizing it as an excuse to touch him, John just smiled "You'll have to show me, again." He gave the other man a mildly heated look, lips quirked into a small smile.

"Sherlock, the choir needs to assemble," Reverend Kelly appeared beside them, giving them each a warm smile. "Good to see you again, Dr. Watson, thank you for coming," Her handshake was firm and the words did make John feel welcome, even if he didn't believe in what she would be preaching.

Unfortunately, Sherlock playing with his tie before the sermon didn't do much to help take his mind off of things for the next hour or so. To distract himself, he tried to pick Sherlock's voice out of the choir. His rich baritone added to the luster of the choir and John was incredibly glad Sherlock couldn't see him from this vantage point. Especially when the sermon itself began.

The people to either side of John seemed to be more into the sermon and didn’t notice John, but he was keenly aware of his arousal and he kept an open hymnal draped casually over his lap. He kept peeking to either side of him, but saw no sign of thieving. When the collection plate came around, John went ahead and added a few small bills of his own. For a good cause and all, and he had no doubt the case would be closed by the time the service was over, and therefore the money would be safe.

John was uncomfortably keyed up when the service was over. Sherlock was still in his cassock and surplice when they rendezvoused near the entrance. "I know who it is," he was told, but nothing more was said until Reverent Kelly joined them. "It's a group of children," Sherlock said, to the surprise of both. "Four of them, each taking a little bit. Detain any children not accompanied by adults. If these children have parents, they're not worth noting, and aren't here. You're looking for two boys, a girl and one too young for even me to tell. The girl is the ringleader, probably an older sister to one or both of the boys, as well as the other child. In all likelihood they don't understand what they're doing is wrong, at least the younger three don't, the girl may very well."

"I know the group you're talking about," The Reverend looked upset at the news. "I was told they lived with their aunt, but now that I think of it, I haven't seen her in abut two months. That's when the thefts began. They seemed like good children if a bit under loved. Thank you, Sherlock," She took one of his hands in both of hers, looking happy at knowing the cause of the problem, even if the solution was less than obvious. "Do you need to inform the police about this?"

"Of course not. I don't care about the crime once I solve it. It's up to you whether the police need be involved."

Clearly relieved, Reverend Kelly nodded. "How can I thank you, Sherlock? We haven't much money, but if there's any way …"

"There is, actually. If you'd be willing to possibly vacate the church for a time. Say an hour or so. John here, he was a soldier in Afghanistan," a strong, warm hand rested on John's shoulder and he knew not to say anything, at least not until he figured out what the hell was going on. "Some of his experiences there… "

His tone, the way he trailed off, the expression on his face. Sherlock had, with a few words made it sound like John had had a terrible crisis of faith. John's heart sped up. Sherlock wanted to get them alone in a church for a least an hour. He _knew_.

"Of course," Reverend Kelly said with a look of sympathetic understanding. "I'll have the building emptied in five minutes, take all the time you need." She turned to John and took his hand as she'd done Sherlock's. "Thank you for your service, Dr. Watson, to England, to God and to Sherlock."

"It's my pleasure, Reverend," He said with honesty as he held her hands warmly for a moment. "Thank you for your kindness," He kept his voice as even as possible, and watched her depart. He didn't turn back to look at Sherlock, not until he knew they were alone, the heavy doors at the front of the church closing with a muffled thunk that echoed in the large chamber.

For a moment, all John could hear was their breathing and his own pounding heart. He still couldn't look at Sherlock, knowing the man had figured at least a few things John had been trying to conceal.

"You've been hiding things from me," Sherlock said, taking hold of John's hand and leading him out of the aisle and into the nave. "For quite some time, you've hidden this from me," A hand on John's chin forced him to look up, and his eyes widened at the undisguised delight on Sherlock's face.

The first kiss was intense, deep, and rendered John breathless. It ended with his arms around Sherlock, one tangled in his hair, the other the gripping surplice at his back, and both men were breathless. "It's not a big deal," he breathed. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock leading them somewhere but he was too busy watching Sherlock's eager face to care about where.

"It was a _secret_ , John. No one keeps secrets from me," He sounded more in awe than upset. "I've never had anyone deny me information about them before. Not anything that mattered." In the end, Irene had still told him everything. Unlike John, Irene had taken extreme measures to avoid revealing anything. John had done so without any real effort.

"Well, I… It's…" John wasn't sure what to say, stumbling against Sherlock as he was dragged up a few steps. "What are - Oh god!" He realized too late just what Sherlock intended. He soon found himself bent over ancient wood, the scent of candles and holy incense filling his nose.

Instinctively, he gripped the edge of the altar and felt Sherlock bending behind him. "Scripture," Sherlock's whispered voice sounded decedent and absolutely filthy. "Scripture gets you hard. Gets you off." Strong fingers were working at John's suit trousers. Whimpering, John gave a token struggle but truth be told he wanted this far, far too much to really care. Sherlock knew, and of course, once knowledge about John was acquired, it would immediately be put to use.

"How long?" John gasped. It had to have been recent or Sherlock wouldn't have called it a secret.

"Since our first service, here," Sherlock said, licking a stripe up the side of John's neck, making him shiver and buck backwards. "You're not as unobservant as you seem at times. You looked around the whole church when we came in. Everywhere, that is, except at the altar. For a poor church, it's a very attractive altar. Well made, aesthetic without being garish. But you very carefully didn't look at it. I knew you were on edge about something. It wasn't until I saw you during Reverend Kelly's sermon that I had a real inkling. Today clinched it; first this morning, then watching you during the service. I almost missed the children because I was watching you." Somehow, it didn't surprise John in the least to know Sherlock had been able to see him.

As Sherlock spoke, he was carefully inching John's trousers and pants down over his arse. His erection was still bound in the confines of his cotton pants and would no doubt remain there until they got home. The church air was cool and despite so little of it being exposed, his skin prickled with goosebumps. Suddenly, Sherlock was gone, leaving John alone and clinging desperately to the altar, his arse hanging out. He could hear fabric rustling and turned his head, looking over his shoulder.

The surplice lay in a white pile beside Sherlock, leaving him in just the cassock. The church was bright enough that John could see him with incredible clarity, and somehow the erection tenting the skirt of his garment didn't spoil the effect one bit. After a moment, Sherlock strode towards John and bent over him, his body curled around the smaller man's, pinning him against the altar. "Do you have any idea how good you look right now?" Sherlock growled against John's ear. John was so turned on he could barely breathe, let alone speak. He let out a whimpering gasp and he knew this was just the beginning. "If I didn't know how much you wanted all of this, I'd fuck you right this second."

John gulped audibly at Sherlock's words, pinned and deliciously helpless in the wake of his lover's attentions. Sherlock wasn't always laconic in bed, and when he wasn't, John was sure that his words alone would get him off. But words alone would never be good enough for Sherlock, so John had resigned himself to someday dying of a Sherlock-grade-orgasm-induced heart attack. "Sherlock." John's voice was high and breathy, more of a whimper than a word as his whole body trembled with anticipation.

Sherlock's already slick fingers rubbed against John's cleft, making him hiss a little. He was still slightly tender from yesterday, which would only enhance this encounter. As if it needed it.

John felt Sherlock press closer, still fully clothed and fitting his chin against John's neck, his full lips brushing John's ear as he spoke. " _The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want._ " John's brain was already starting to melt when Sherlock spoke. A slick finger pressed against John, rubbing and twisting, spreading the lube around. " _He maketh me to lie down in green pastures_." A blunt tipped finger pressed gently into John. " _He leadeth me beside the still waters_." Sherlock's finger pushed in fully, easing John open.

Their heartbeats pounded in time. Whenever Sherlock wasn't speaking, the only sound in the quiet stillness of the church was John's quick, desperate breathing and the wet, obscene sounds of Sherlock's fingers. " _He restoreth my soul_ ," The finger inside John wiggled, flexed and withdrew. " _He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake_ ," Two fingers pushed in, prompting a low, keening moan from John. " _Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death_." Slowly thrusting in and out, a third added as he finished. " _I will fear no evil_ ," The fingers withdrew, as did Sherlock, leaving John cold, shuddering and on the razor's edge of pleasure and desperation. He heard fabric rustle, and when Sherlock returned, his cassock was still in place except for a key part below his waist. He spoke as he pressed himself slowly into John's slick but tight body. " _For_ thou _art with me_ , John,"

Hearing his name almost pushed John over the edge, a moan strangling in his throat. He held on, not wanting this to be over. They were in this one together. As if sensing his lover's distress, Sherlock was still and quiet for a moment.

Only for a moment, though, and it was enough. Sherlock moved again, drawing out of John and pressing back in as he resumed his sinful, dirty whispers in John's ear. " _Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me_." Sherlock had been slow, gliding in and out, but his pace began to increase as he continued. " _Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies_ ," His hips quickened further, and he drew his tongue up the side of John's neck. " _Thou anointest my head with oil_ ," This was said with the tenderest kiss to John's temple. After that, his pace grew more frenzied. " _My cup runneth over_." Sherlock's cool demeanor was starting to slip. One hand slid up John's arm, gripping his forearm, pressing him against the alter as the other dug into his hip, holding him steady. " _Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life_." Sherlock's breathing was ragged and the words were clearly a struggle for him as he thrust in powerfully, hitting John's sweet spot. " _And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever!_ " He ended with a yell that matched John's as they both came. John into his cotton pants and Sherlock into John's clenching still pulsing backside.

"Psalm 23," John gulped. "Chap'r…" his brain faltered in the wake of his pleasure, more intense than anything he'd ever felt. This time it was Sherlock who recovered enough to tenderly administer to his lover. A cool wipe was drawn carefully over John's skin. He hissed in surprise but the cool material was soothing on his abused skin.

John was so dazed by everything he didn't fully recover until Sherlock drew him up from the alter and turned him around, tenderly doing up his trousers. He'd even tucked John's shirt in. John straightened a little, still overwhelmed on some levels, his mind blown by what Sherlock had done for him. "You really liked that, didn't you? Not knowing something about me?" he murmured, his own hands taking liberties, sliding over Sherlock's chest, wondering if they could possibly keep the cassock.

"I did," he murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to John's lips. "Other people are easy. They give away secrets with every breath, every word; but not you. The best of it is that you don't try. And yes, we're keeping the cassock," he promised, which earned him another slow, loving kiss.

\- fin -

**Author's Note:**

> The scripture quoted is as accurate as I can make it. The masturbatory snippet at the beginning is from the Song of Solomon, text as it appears here - http://www.fourmilab.ch/etexts/www/Bible/Song_of_Solomon.html
> 
> The altar / prompt passage is probably one of the more famous bits of scripture – Psalm 23. I used the text as it appears here, with one teensy change ;-) http://www.christnotes.org/bible.php?q=Psalm+23
> 
> This is the altar as I picture it - http://images.yourdictionary.com/altar
> 
> This may or may not be the last we see of the cassock.


End file.
